


It's Only Human Nature After All

by Fledglinger, summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Falling In Love, He/Him Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Music Hall AU, Sugar Mama Crowley, Tipping the Velvet AU, but if you've read or seen that consider this just yoinking the aesthetic and discarding the rest, male impersonators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29219493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fledglinger/pseuds/Fledglinger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Anthonia Crowley is one of the most well-known male impersonators in the music hall scene and likes to use her success to get her way.When theater management decides to take her down a peg by forcing her to share her dressing room with the new girl who could steal her spotlight, Crowley hates to admit she feels a little sorry for her. Worse, she might even like her.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 120
Kudos: 452
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my RBB! I've been lucky enough to work with Al Figeroid who had this wonderful wonderful idea for a Tipping the Velvet AU (but make it happy). 
> 
> Al is doing Femslash February over on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AlFriggy) which, if you're here for an ineffable wives AU, I imagine that might interest you so give it a look-see!
> 
> Thank you Mackaley for the beta and the support on this!
> 
> This will update weekly until complete! Enjoy!

* * *

Anthonia Crowley walked into the backstage door of the Ninth Circle on Saturday with a bit of swagger in her step. She’d not only personally secured better pay for every single backstage worker, but no one was required to work matinees and evening shifts without prior discussion _and_ she’d negotiated Sundays off. That’s what she got for star power.

"Mz. Crowley.”

Crowley froze and pasted on a smile. Of course Beelzebub would show up and ruin her good mood. Just like management.

"Where are you headed?" he asked.

Crowley simpered. "My dressing room, Mr. B. I’m on in two hours."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said. The perpetual scent of cigarettes followed Mr. B everywhere he went. You weren't allowed to smoke backstage, but the way he reeked of it, you'd never know.

"I'll walk with you," Mr. B. said, falling into step beside Crowley. "We're making some changes, Mz. Crowley. To account for the strike."

"I know," Crowley said, trying not to sound _too_ pleased. It wouldn’t do to antagonize management after such a big win. "Our demands were met."

Mr. B shoved their tiny hands into their pockets as they came to a stop outside Crowley's dressing room. The largest one in the theater. A real feather in Crowley’s cap, it was.

"They were," Beelzebub acknowledged. "But we had to rearrange some things. To find money in the budget. All those raised wages."

Crowley didn’t like what Mr. B was implying. "What are you saying?"

Mr. B pushed open the dressing room. "Meet your new roomie, princess. Play nice."

Crowley was the star of the Ninth Circle, and she knew it. She also knew this afforded her special treatment. Treatment like choosing her time slots and a dressing room with her name on it to share with exactly no one else. She was the headliner and that meant more money for management, but apparently not enough money to prevent underhanded, passive aggressive tactics like _forcing her to share her dressing room._

So Mr. B disappeared, and Crowley was left to stare at the woman currently making herself at home at a vanity Crowley didn’t recognize. _Somebody_ had carted in a new vanity where Crowley’s costumes used to hang and now the costume rack had been moved into the corner and Crowley was going to scream.

This _interloper_ was dressed in men's trousers and shirtsleeves, topped off with a waistcoat and bow tie. The whole thing was a poorly cut tan monstrosity that did nothing for the woman’s god-given curves. But that didn’t matter in the least because Crowley couldn't believe her eyes. The theater couldn't have possibly hired another—

"Hello," the woman said as she stood, voice prim as you please. "I’m Aziraphale Fell. The new male impersonator."

Not only was management sticking her with the new girl. It was the new girl who could steal her spotlight.

Evil. Downright evil.

Then the woman had the gall to ask, “And who are you?”

* * *

Aziraphale Fell was born in Weymouth, daughter of a seamstress and a fisherman. She learned how to shuck oysters at a young age, and when her father died, she sold the oysters too.

When she was twenty-five, she fell in love with the girl who sold meat pies on the docks to the other fishermen. Her mother knew and said not a word, until that girl ran off with one of the fisherman. It was then that Aziraphale’s mother let her cry on her lap while she brushed Aziraphale’s hair and told her there were other fish in the sea.

Aziraphale didn’t want any other fish and when she went back to work, every oyster reminded her of Jane and walking past the pie shop broke her heart so finally, she packed her things and told her mother she was moving to London where perhaps the other fish would be. Real, non-metaphorical fish.

Her mother had looked at her for a long time, handed her the money they had saved from Aziraphale’s oyster business, and told her to be careful.

Aziraphale had always preferred trousers in the day-to-day of selling oysters from her cart. Finding that shirts were cheaper and washed easier than dresses when they stained or needed replacing. She liked her hair short even though it certainly gained her odd looks in the town square, but when she moved to London she knew exactly what sort of work it could get her.

She’d heard stories of the music halls and the strange performances. How the _different_ was celebrated on stage. You could get _paid_ to wear trousers and sing or dance or play piano. And while Aziraphale certainly couldn’t dance, her mother said she had the voice of an angel.

Mr. Beelzebub, the very angry and very small theater manager at the Ninth Circle, had agreed.

But now, standing and facing down a stormy-faced woman with the prettiest red hair Aziraphale had ever seen, her heart raced a mile a minute, and Aziraphale wondered if she had made a mistake.

She was used to friendly people. Small town people who bought her oysters and left her an extra shilling because they heard her mother had a cough and couldn’t work that week. Not women with sharp noses and sharp honey-colored eyes whose grins could only be compared to a shark.

“Aziraphale Fell,” the woman repeated, a sneer punctuating her words as she drew closer. She was dressed in a crimson set of gorgeous tailormades, the likes of which would have probably cost Aziraphale an entire month’s earnings. The buttons were black velvet, and the way they lined the woman’s chest emphasized the almost comically perfect curve of her waist.

“You may want to consider a stage name. A-zira-phale,” the woman said again as she unpinned her hat and tossed it onto the hatstand. “A mouthful, that.”

“Oh, a stage name,” Aziraphale said in awe. She hadn’t thought of that. There was something wondrous in the idea. An added mystique. If she had a stage name, she would no longer be the oystermonger from Weymouth but an actual performer.

“Do you have a stage name?”

The woman paused in the unbuttoning of her tailormades, long-fingers poised among the buttons. “I didn’t need one,” she said. “Anthonia Crowley worked just fine.”

Aziraphale dropped the brush in her hand, and it clattered to the floor. Crowley. _The_ Anthonia Crowley. She was sharing a dressing room with Anthonia Crowley.

“Oh.”

Miss Crowley gave her another acknowledging sneer.

There were names one heard from the music hall scene. Singers and dancers. But Aziraphale had always been fascinated by the male impersonators. Anthonia Crowley was one of the best. Vesta Tilley and Hetty King and Anthonia Crowley.

What Aziraphale couldn’t figure out was why she was working in this theater of all places. Small as it was, it didn’t seem to her standard. Someone like Anthonia Crowley could do better.

“Well, are you going to stare, or do you have a show to get ready for because I do?”

Aziraphale jumped and turned back to the mirror. “Right. I’m actually...I suppose it’s you I’m, uh, opening for then?”

Miss Crowley whipped around to face her, jaw setting sharp as cut glass. “You’re opening for _me_? Where’s Hastur and Ligur?”

“Mr. B said that your opener was recently promoted to the dinner hour,” Aziraphale rushed to say. “That’s why he hired me.”

Miss Crowley leaned back, spine bending almost unnaturally and let out a long groan in the direction of the ceiling. “Why does nobody talk to me?”

Aziraphale stared at her, unsure of what to say, before Miss Crowley slapped her hand down on the top of her vanity and turned her attention back to her.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But your act better be different. Miles away. In fucking Timbuktu compared to what I do.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard and then cleared her throat. Crowley was so close to her that Aziraphale could smell the faint scent of clove cigarettes and the underlying scent of her jasmine perfume.

“You will _not_ steal my show.”

With that, Crowley whirled on her heel and began the mesmerizing process of getting ready.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale murmured under her breath.

At a very young age Aziraphale had realized her interests were not those of other girls. She did not giggle about the handsome gentlemen who came and went through Weymouth. She wasn’t interested in anything more than the tailoring of their coats. But the ladies who were with them...

It was the elegant curve of their necks, the sound of their laughter. Women were _beautiful_ in a way men simply weren’t.

Anthonia Crowley was beautiful too.

Aziraphale tried not to watch as she got ready for her act. Based on her prickly welcome, she didn’t think Miss Crowley would appreciate it, but the woman moved with expert efficiency, shrugging off her tailormades until she was down to black lacy combinations finer than any Aziraphale had ever seen. She did her make up then. Aziraphale supposed it made sense that she would need to do something to accentuate her features to make them more masculine, but it wasn’t just an addition of thicker eyebrows and a bit of shading around the jaw. She painted her lips blood red and rouged her cheeks before shrugging on her costume, a gorgeous toff’s suit with white shirt and black tails.

The overall effect was beautiful and confusing and wonderful. Miss Crowley was undeniably dressed as a man but she was not denying her femininity and it stirred something in Aziraphale’s belly to watch her move about the dressing room.

As Miss Crowley began to brush back her hair, gathering pins in her hand, she caught Aziraphale’s eye in the mirror and smirked. “Like what you see, angelcakes?”

Aziraphale blushed something mad and redirected her attention to her own reflection. She needed to re-do her own hair. Miss Crowley’s hair seemed more willing to be tamed than her own puff of golden curls. It was why she liked to keep it short, but she needed to slick it back for the show or else it would puff up around her head like dandelion fluff which made her look undeniably feminine. She didn’t have a costume to change into. She couldn’t afford one just yet. Her suit was just her suit and it would have to do.

* * *

_Our angels love enjoyment and we take them up and down_

_Of course that is the duty of the men_

_And though celestial creatures are supposed to live on air_

_They relish stout and oysters now and then_

Crowley didn’t need to worry about the new girl stealing her show. That became infinitely clear as she watched her perform. Singing _Angels Without Wings?_ Not only was the song bloody twenty years old, practically a relic, its jokes didn’t match Aziraphale’s style at all. She didn’t know how to hit the timing.

Her voice though. The girl could sing. When she was out on stage, she could project over the drinking and talking that came with the music hall scene. But it wasn’t _interesting._ Sure, she affected a dandy. Maybe with a better tailor and a few ribald jokes, she would have had the audience in the palm of her hand. As it was, her voice was the only thing that recommended her. Plucked right off a better stage than this and dropped here for lower class, cheap enjoyment.

Even Crowley couldn’t sing like that. She relied on her other talents to entertain the masses.

As Crowley watched, against her better judgment, she found Aziraphale’s earnest performance endearing. What tripe. _Endearing._ Crowley didn’t think words like endearing. Or _cute_ or _earnest_ even. Yet, that was what Aziraphale was.

When Aziraphale swept off stage to polite and unenthusiastic applause, she pressed her hands to the flaming apples of her cheeks as she hurried into the wings. “Oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear. I’m going to be sick.”

“Get nervous, do you? Bit of _stage fright_?” Crowley asked, not caring for an answer as she slipped her top hat on.

Aziraphale sucked in a few deep breaths and the piano began its ragtime tune just in time for Crowley to prepare to sweep onto the stage. She rolled her shoulders and cast a final glance at Aziraphale.

“Why don’t you see how it’s done?”

Anthonia Crowley wasn’t born in the gutter, but she ended up there. After her parents died, it was the orphanage, then the workhouse, then the streets. Then a wonderful woman named Madame Tracy picked her up. The Madame taught Crowley that there were skills one could learn with one’s body that didn’t require chapped hands and fifteen-hour work days. It was a sort of a performance and Crowley _thrived_ and once she had enough money saved she started performing on stage, finding her niche quickly.

It wasn’t the sex that sold. It was the promise of it. Those other male impersonators, they made their money perfecting their impersonations. Crowley had learned that her edge was in her femininity, the soldier in lipstick, the corset on the gentleman.

Audiences loved it.

Straightlaced theaters however, did not.

So Crowley worked in places like the Ninth Circle and made plenty of money showing a little leg. It wasn’t exactly back alley, but she wouldn’t ever call it upstanding. How someone like Aziraphale ended up here, she’d never know. She was the very definition of straightlaced.

So Crowley did her little song and dance (a lot less song, a lot more dance) and when she got off stage, she was pleased to see Aziraphale red in the face.

“Still embarrassed, angelcakes?” Crowley asked, not even bothering to button up her shirt as it fluttered open around her torso. There was something very powerful about stalking around in just a corset and trousers. She thought more men should try it.

Aziraphale glanced away and cleared her throat. “Certainly not. I didn’t realize you gave such...vivacious performances.”

“A girl’s gotta eat,” Crowley drawled, already marching away, ready for a nap and cigarette. Fun as a matinee was, it really did take it out of her. And she had the seven o’clock scheduled. She supposed Aziraphale would be opening for her then too.

* * *

Every night Aziraphale stood offstage and watched Crowley perform. She didn’t have to. She could have gone back to the dressing room and taken a break between sets. It was simply that Crowley was mesmerizing.

She strode on stage, top hat poised, walking stick in hand, coat fluttering behind her. She didn’t sing. She had no partner. She would speak in rhythm to some dirty song that made Aziraphale blush. First, her bow tie would come off and then her shirt would slowly come unbuttoned. The crowd would hoot and holler and shout obscenities and Aziraphale could understand why. The way Crowley made her stomach heat and squirm, how utterly distracting it was to watch her, it made Aziraphale want to shout and holler. Not that she ever would.

Then Crowley would swan off the stage, looking quite pleased, before saying something cutting and disappearing off towards the dressing room. It was the same every day, and Aziraphale didn’t know if Crowley would ever change it. Aziraphale didn’t know if she could do anything to make her change it.

And after her final show, every day, Aziraphale would finally go home to her dirty little tenement and have her dinner of bread and cheese and wish she could perform like Crowley.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> Suet is basically lard and was used in pomade at the time. It didn't always stink but it could.
> 
> Period typical language for sex work will be used in this chapter.
> 
> A programming note: the next chapter will posted not NEXT Saturday but the Saturday after as I need more editing time. Thanks so much for reading!

Aziraphale was _always_ in the dressing room. It was almost as if she lived there. Every time Crowley arrived for call, there she was; reading, doing her hair, sometimes scribbling away on letters she would stuff away in the drawer of her dressing table when Crowley walked in. It would have been one thing if they were just sharing the space, but Aziraphale was _monopolizing_ it.

Crowley was going to get rid of her. This was her dressing room. She had earned it by putting in the work and this little nobody couldn't drop in from the sky, no matter how angelic they seemed, and just steal Crowley's dressing room. 

By the time Crowley was done, Aziraphale Fell would be begging to leave the Ninth Circle.

Crowley knew exactly where to start. She remembered when she first started at Madame Tracy’s. The older girls had been desperately jealous, and they used to mix horse piss into her perfume. Crowley would never do something so obvious. No. Her sabotage would be less rancid.

Aziraphale used an awful cheap pomade that had to go. It smelled of suet and orange blossoms and if Crowley somehow got rid of it, that would save both her nose and ruin Aziraphale’s ability to do her hair. She seemed to prefer having it slicked back. Crowley had only seen it without pomade once. The fifth day of their first week together. The pale curls puffed around Aziraphale’s head like a halo. She would have looked ridiculous if it hadn’t been so adorable.

Crowley needed her gone.

“Oh, drat,” Aziraphale said on their second Saturday together. They were scheduled for their first shows in under an hour. 

She rummaged around her table (she’d only been there a week and it was already an utter mess) and frowned. “Um...Anthonia?”

“Don’t call me Anthonia,” Crowley snapped, tearing away the small brush she was using to do her brows. 

Recoiling, Aziraphale’s hands fluttered into her lap. “I’m sorry. Um, Miss Crowley. I can’t find my pomade. And I need it to do my hair.”

Crowley turned slowly and raised her eyebrows. “How is that my problem?”

“I suppose it’s not,” Aziraphale said.

Satisfied, Crowley went back to finishing her make-up, but apparently, Aziraphale wasn’t done speaking.

“Though, I do go on before you, and I know you think my act isn’t very...Well, the worse I do, the less happy the audience is, and if I look unprofessional, won’t that reflect poorly on you?”

Crowley clenched her jaw. “Fine,” she said. “Use mine.”

She grabbed the tin and threw it at the other woman with very little aim and was surprised to see Aziraphale catch it. If she wasn’t mistaken, a small, self-satisfied smile flitted over Aziraphale’s face before disappearing as she turned back to her own mirror to slick back her hair.

“Thank you, Miss Crowley. That’s very kind of you,” she said as she unscrewed the lid.

Crowley considered that for a moment. 

“When you buy your next pomade, buy beeswax. Not suet. Smells better and has a better hold.”

Aziraphale dipped her fingers in the tin and began to brush the pomade into the sides of her hair, slicking it back with a comb and taming the curls. “I do know that. Beeswax is simply too expensive for me at the moment. I have to choose my luxuries and bread happens to be the extent of it at the moment,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Crowley frowned. Was Aziraphale poor? Crowley didn’t like to think of that one bit. Was she coming into work and trying to bully someone into poverty?

When she came into work on Monday, Aziraphale was all effusive thanks for the pomade Crowley had left on her vanity. 

“It’s no problem,” Crowley said. (It was a problem.)

“You shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale said, turning over the jar in her hands. Her eyes were wide. Crowley knew she shouldn’t have; she was supposed to be doing everything she could to get the girl out of here, and she had gone out and bought her a _gift_.

“If there’s anything I can do for you, Miss Crowley, say the word,” Aziraphale said. She looked up and put her shoulders back, decisive and optimistic in a way Crowley could hardly understand.

“You could call me Crowley,” she said, surprising herself.

“Crowley it is then,” Aziraphale said with a soft smile before turning back to the vanity to get ready.

Crowley’s heart thumped hard against her ribs and she couldn’t account for it. Aziraphale was pretty, but Aziraphale was _irritating_. Aziraphale was in the way. Except now Crowley couldn’t bring herself to try to get Aziraphale fired because that probably meant Aziraphale would be out on the streets and Crowley remembered what that was like and she would never, not on her life, put another soul through that willingly.

She glanced at Aziraphale as she hummed and started combing the new pomade through her hair.

The new girl would be alright. Crowley would make sure of it even if she hated her. Even if she wanted her gone, Crowley wouldn’t be able to go through with her original plan. Even when listening to her sing grated on Crowley’s last nerve. Every show Crowley would be backstage getting ready, listening to Aziraphale sing, that angelic voice belting out the latest music hall tune. That voice would stick in Crowley’s head. Follow her to the greengrocer’s, follow her to the tailor’s, follow her home where she would hum the song to herself as she cooked dinner.

But the act? The act was bad. Not enough entertainment factor. Everyone who was there was there for Crowley, any applause was polite. 

Aziraphale needed an edge. But that wasn’t Crowley’s business. Crowley was just going to do the work, make the money and continue to live her life.

Except she wanted to help.

Crowley tried to tell herself she had helped. She bought Aziraphale the bloody high-end pomade and, a few days later, a nice replacement comb which she played off as an old one of her own she didn’t want anymore. 

It was turning into a real problem. Not just an _I want to help out the new girl_ problem. But an _I want to buy her flowers and kiss her on the mouth_ problem.

It was those bloody eyes and that constant smile and maybe Crowley hadn’t slept with anyone in a good long while. Maybe if she went out and found someone, someone _not_ Aziraphale, she could shake the perpetual heat in her stomach and the way her eyes drifted to those thighs.

God, even in the ill-fitting suit Crowley knew she’d be gorgeous if she could just get her out of those layers. All those curves. Probably tits to die for…

So, after her last show on Friday one month after Aziraphale arrived at the Ninth Circle, Crowley went out.

She went to a bar she favored. A place that served people like her and kept quiet about it. Plenty of women in suits were out and about and no one said a word. That was the point of the thing. To meet women who liked women. Crowley liked men and women, but for tonight, she had a curvy blond to forget and that meant she needed to find a woman.

Crowley tossed back her first gin of the evening and thanked the barkeep, a handsome young thing who Crowley might have been interested in if her hair wasn’t black as night with eyes to match. 

Having done herself up for the evening, Crowley was out to hook the finest. She had pinned back her hair in delicate swoops, worn her best dress, and added a touch of lipstick. She was, as could be said, at the top of her game. 

“Crowley?”

Her neck prickled at the sound of the voice she was here to forget. Melodious and husky and altogether too angelic. 

She grimaced and gestured for another gin. This was no good. This was exactly what she wanted to avoid.

Aziraphale appeared beside her. “It _is_ you. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for some company,” Crowley said, not looking at her because if she looked at her she knew what would happen. Her stomach would warm from more than the gin and that warmth would go too far south and she would forget she was here to find someone else. Someone _not_ Aziraphale to take the edge off. And, fuck, she turned to her right and looked at Aziraphale anyway. 

She was still wearing an ill-fitting suit. A tan waistcoat and a tartan bow tie. Her short hair was slicked back on the sides and a bit curly on top and she was grinning at Crowley like she was happy to see her. Like Crowley hadn’t been the thorn in her side for the last month.

“And what are you doing in this part of town?” Crowley asked, angling her body to look at Aziraphale.

She blushed. “If you must know, I was told there was an oyster house nearby. A good one and I wanted to try it, but it was hardly worth raving about. I found myself quite disappointed.”

“So you thought you’d find a different sort of oyster to eat,” Crowley said, thinking herself quite clever at the little innuendo.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked. She didn’t get the joke. Why would she get the joke? If anyone would be a blushing virgin, it would be Aziraphale. Those innocent eyes.

“Nothing, nothing,” Crowley mumbled and she returned to slurping at her drink.

“I’d heard about this place from some of the backstage workers and thought I’d stop by.”

“You know what this place is known for, don’t you?” Crowley asked, unable to stop herself from pushing, from trying to get a rise out of her.

Aziraphale blinked at her in confusion and Crowley sighed.

“I’m just saying that if you show up at a place like this,” Crowley gestured at Aziraphale’s trousers, “dressed like that, people are going to think you’re after one thing.”

Aziraphale frowned. “And what thing is that?”

“Oysters,” Crowley said with a grin that made her meaning clear.

Aziraphale gasped and smacked at her arm. “You wicked thing. I don’t see why trousers and a waistcoat would proclaim such an _intent_ but—”

“Look, angelcakes, women who wear trousers usually want to sleep with women. If you’re going to show up at a bar _known_ for that sort of thing, well, you’re advertising,” Crowley explained.

Aziraphale looked down at her clothes. “Trousers are practical,” she protested.

“That they are,” Crowley said, and she looked at Aziraphale’s trousers too. Those thighs. She wanted to see them shake, feel them around her ears and that was the wrong thing to start thinking. She was supposed to _not_ be thinking about Aziraphale’s thighs, lucious as they were. It was bad business to think about coworkers that way. Virgin coworkers even worse.

Aziraphale dropped into the chair beside her. “But that’s what you’re here for. That sort of thing?”

Embarrassed by her train of thought and not wanting to admit to it, Crowley hummed noncommittally. She gestured to the barkeep for another drink.

"Want anything?"

Aziraphale waved off the offer and shook her head, demure as anything. It was cute and Crowley hated that she thought it was cute. She had this feeling that, even if she avoided getting between those legs, she genuinely _liked_ Aziraphale. Perish the thought.

"My treat," Crowley said, holding out her hand to wave down the server.

Aziraphale considered and then nodded. “Oh alright, you’ve tempted me.”

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley said thoughtfully as the girl filling the drinks went about getting something for Aziraphale.

“Oh, my dear, I’m sure that’s not true,” Aziraphale replied, voice laden with double meaning.

Crowley turned in shock, and Aziraphale had the most self-satisfied smile on her face. “Yes, very funny.”

“Oh, so only you’re allowed to make dirty jokes?”

“Never said that." Crowley grinned as they tipped their glasses together. It was a bad idea. It was one thing to think the new girl was attractive. To want to help her out. It was another to find her charming. 

Except one drink turned to two and they ended up in a dark corner sharing a table and a bottle of wine and Crowley was tipsy, beyond tipsy, and Aziraphale’s pretty cheeks were a fetching pink as she talked.

"I just don't know what Beelzebub’s issue is. He seems perfect—perfectly reasonable one day and then the next he has all these demands?"

"S'management," Crowley said, tearing her eyes away from Aziraphale’s mouth. Pretty peach mouth. Probably soft as a peach. Sweet as a peach.

"I'm going to get fired," Aziraphale said, pouring the remnants of the bottle into her cup. "I'm not good. Everyone knows it.”

"No," Crowley said, flapping her hands. Uncontrollable as birds they were when she was drunk. "Your voice. Gorgeous."

Aziraphale looked surprised and leaned into Crowley. Her warmth was like a brand. Burning. Unforgettable. "Really? You really think so?"

Crowley’s breath caught in her chest as she looked down into Aziraphale’s eyes. Dark gray in the dim light. "I wouldn't lie to you."

Looking away, Aziraphale’s eyelashes fluttered as she took a drink.

"Let’s talk about something less maudlin," she demanded.

Crowley obliged even as she wanted to protest. This was all happening so fast. Lust twisted into something Crowley recognized but didn’t want to name.

By the time they finished their second bottle, Crowley was drunk enough to convince Aziraphale to let her walk her home. It was more of a swaying stumble but Crowley was glad to do it. It gave her time to sober up as they giggled over stories of Aziraphale’s time selling oysters in Weymouth 

"No wonder the oyster house wasn't up to snuff. You’ve had the proper sort of oysters," Crowley said, thoughts blurring as Aziraphale looped their arms together.

"I do have standards."

"I’m sure you do," Crowley said, heart sinking sure as a blasted out ship. Standards Crowley would probably never meet. Not if Aziraphale was a nice girl from Weymouth. Crowley used to be a thief, a prostitute. She’d never been _nice._ She still wasn’t.

Aziraphale stopped in front of a grungy tenement building. Crowley peered up at the dirty windows and immediately wanted to tear this angel away, drag her back to her own much nicer set of room, set her up on the sofa, make sure she never had to stay in a place like this ever again.

"This is me," Aziraphale said, all traces of drunkenness gone from her speech.

Crowley nodded and watched Aziraphale ascend the stairs to the door. It hurt watching her go, a thread tugging beneath her breast bone directly under her heart.

“You need to get your suits tailored,” Crowley said, voice too loud, alcohol loosening her tongue and that strange fear that if she said nothing, the night would end and whatever bond had formed between them would be broken.

Aziraphale paused at the stoop of her tenement. “Excuse me?”

“Your suits. They’re too loose.”

“I...Shouldn’t they be loose?” Aziraphale asked. “To hide the…” She gestured at her breasts.

Crowley shook her head. “Nah. Well, yes. Uh, well, depends. You need ‘em tailored. Right now you look like a little girl in daddy’s clothes. They don’t need to be tight like I do. You’re not going for sexy. I don’t think.”

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale said stiffly, tugging on her tie. “I’m trying to...I was attempting to go for more of the classic dandy performance, but you can see how well that’s going.”

Crowley tried to bite back her grimace but did a poor job judging by the way Aziraphale ducked her head in embarrassment. 

“I thought I could make it as a performer. Mr. Beelzebub hired me for my voice, but I know I’m only holding on because people are there for you. I know that. I’m not a fool.”

“I could help you,” Crowley said. “Give you a few pointers.”

Aziraphale looked so relieved that Crowley wanted to offer something else. Her heart on a platter. But that was too fast. Unwanted as well. 

“You’d do that?”

“Sure,” Crowley said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. “It’ll help both of us, after all.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Crowley ducked her head and took a step away, needing to go home before she did something else foolish like try to kiss Aziraphale here in the dark. 

To her shock, Aziraphale hopped down the steps and kissed her cheek before retreating back to the door. “Thank you. You’re really rather sweet, beneath it all.”

She ducked inside then, leaving Crowley’s cheek to tingle the entire walk home.

* * *

“First things first, the tailor,” Crowley said when she breezed into the dressing room the following morning.

Aziraphale looked up from her book, surprised that Crowley was there so early. She could hardly believe their conversation the previous night was real and here Crowley was, arriving before noon instead of sauntering in at three.

“Pardon me?”

“I said I would help, angel,” Crowley said without pausing at her protests. “And I’m helping. The tailor.”

“Crowley, I can’t afford a tailor,” Aziraphale protested, but Crowley was already behind her, urging her to stand up and tugging at her waistcoat. It really did fit poorly.

Crowley waved her hands. “It’ll be taken care of.”

“What does that mean?” Aziraphale asked plaintively as Crowley cocked her head from side to side, inspecting her. The woman was too attractive to be _staring_ at Aziraphale like that. 

“It’s my tailor so I’ll pay for it,” Crowley said dismissively, as if Aziraphale didn’t know the cost of tailoring a suit.

“Crowley!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley retorted in the same tone before stepping away to look at her from tip to toe.

“You can’t just—”

“I can and I will. Do you wear a corset under your clothes?”

“No.”

“What do you do with your breasts?”

“Um.”

Crowley was asking her about her _breasts,_ and Aziraphale’s legs went a little wobbly.

“We’ll get you fitted for a special corset as well. It flattens you out. Grab your things, we are leaving."

Aziraphale spluttered, but Crowley was already halfway out the door and talking. "Shadwell’s a bit…you’ll see. But he’s a good tailor."

Aziraphale grabbed her coat and scurried after. Crowley really did have very long legs, gorgeous legs emphasized by the trousers she wore today.

Aziraphale hadn’t felt this way since Jane and even then it hadn’t been quite so visceral. What she had felt for Jane had always warmed her heart, and their kisses and touches were always wonderful and thrilling, but when Aziraphale thought of Crowley, when she looked at Crowley, it was like a fire igniting inside her, and she desperately tried not to think about it for too long because Crowley was the most gorgeous woman she had ever seen. Certainly a heartbreaker. Someone who left a trail of women and men behind her and certainly not someone who would look at Aziraphale twice. Aziraphale, a silly oyster girl who didn’t know how to wear suits.

But Crowley wanted to help her and for that Aziraphale was thankful.

* * *

Shadwell turned out to be an angry old Scot with an incomprehensible accent, but he had a firm touch that didn’t wander and as Crowley watched from the door of the shop, she proclaimed, “You know, if you’re going to be playing at the dandy, you should have a better suit. You have what? Just the two?”

“They are working fine, Crowley,” Aziraphale said as Shadwell pinned back her waistcoat on the side.

“I don’t think they are. You look like a fusty bookseller, but the songs you’re singing are for playing up the aspects of a well-to-do aristocrat. People are there to see you poke fun at that. You need nice clothes.”

“Crowley, I can’t afford nice clothes.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “They don’t need to be nice. They need to look nice from a distance. Besides, Shadwell knows how to make cheesecloth look like lace.”

Shadwell mumbled something Aziraphale couldn’t understand. 

Aziraphale wrung her hands and Crowley stepped forward, taking them in her own. Her skin was soft and the touch set off a fluttering in her stomach.

"If it makes you feel better, you can pay me back. Consider it a loan."

Crowley’s eyes, that pretty honeyed brown like aging whiskey, searched her face and Aziraphale’s breath caught, heart beating so hard she thought Shadwell could probably feel it as he measured between her shoulder blades.

"Alright," Aziraphale said, stomach still doing remarkable, terrifying things. One corner of Crowley’s mouth quirked and she released Aziraphale’s hands.

"Shadwell, you heard the woman. You have her measurements. Whip up your finest cheap suit."

Shadwell saluted and added a handful of words Aziraphale didn't even try to translate. Crowley laughed though, as if it were a very fine joke, before taking Aziraphale from the store.

* * *

When they returned to the theater, Crowley strode back to the dressing room without a word. Crowley turned on her heel and whipped off her jacket in one smooth motion that Aziraphale couldn’t help but admire. Crowley was an odd collection of angles and limbs, but she had the strangest sort of grace you couldn’t look away from. At least Aziraphale couldn’t.

"Perform for me," Crowley commanded with a little flick of her wrist. She leaned back against the other dressing table and looked at Aziraphale expectantly.

"Crowley, I’m not ready."

Crowley raised her eyebrows and crossed her legs. More often than not Crowley favored dresses in her off work time but today she had shown up in a tailored suit that made Aziraphale’s stomach wobble just looking at her. Long legs, hourglass figure, a black waistcoat and red tie nestled at the base of her throat. Aziraphale kept imagining grasping it and tugging Crowley down to kiss her. Would she want that? Was it a bad idea?

"Just show me the basics," Crowley said. "I can tell you where you can do a bit more comedy. You’ve got the bones of a good thing, angel. Remember that."

When had that sarcastic nickname— _angelcakes_ —become _angel_? It certainly sounded like an endearment now and it made Aziraphale feel very warm indeed. 

Aziraphale huffed and put her shoulders back. She had a specific attitude she liked to adopt when she went on stage. Her particular brand of femininity didn’t require skirts and rouge and giggles and when she shifted her hips back and rolled her shoulders, it was easy enough to feel like any rich man on the street with a posh accent and a haughty tilt to his chin.

Crowley rolled to her feet grinning. “See, that’s good. Almost too convincing. The posture. You’ve got it down pat.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged one shoulder and began to circle around her, inspecting her again and sending a tingle down her spine. “Well, I rely on making sure the audience _knows_ I’m a woman underneath the costume. I think you might be able to fool them entirely.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. “Oh, certainly not.”

Crowley cocked her head. “No. No. Put your shoulders back again. I’ve only really listened to you sing, but walk for me.”

Aziraphale hesitated but when Crowley stepped away, she did as she was asked, taking measured steps. Crowley hummed and disappeared into the corner before returning with a walking stick.

“Use this.”

“But I don’t—”

“Just do it.”

“Fine.”

Aziraphale moved about the room and when she turned back to Crowley, the other woman was grinning fiercely. 

“You know, I may just make a star of you yet.”

Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest and she tucked the walking stick close. Maybe there was hope after all.

* * *

Aziraphale’s act was by no mean’s perfect. She did not have anything by the way of star power or charisma, but on Thursday her new suit arrived and Friday morning Crowley dragged her in to practice and it was good.

With the walking stick, she could move about on stage and look just like any awful man trotting about in St. James with a snuff box in his pocket and far too much money to waste. She had the stilted walk down perfectly, the effeminate wrist but the masculine poise.

Crowley was impressed. She thought Aziraphale, if she had even a hint of comedic timing, could have given the likes of Vesta Tilley a run for her money.

Instead, the girl would sing and Crowley would come on after and do the rest. Not that Crowley minded doing the heavy lifting.

So Friday night Crowley had the mainstage for the after dinner hour as she always did. It was her main crowd. The tipsy bunch looking for a little more of a show than the slightly more upstanding theaters could give. 

Hastur and Ligur had been promoted to dinner itself, their slapstick routine apparently well-received by everyone. Crowley could hear the booming laughter as she smoothed her bright red lipstick and did up her eyebrows. 

It was a song tonight for her. She didn’t sing, but she spoke in rhythm and it worked for her. People were here to see the buttons come undone. To see her bite her lip and flirt with the front row. Aziraphale could handle the melodies.

A thought floated through her mind: what if Aziraphale _did_ handle the melodies? What if they worked together?

She swiftly pushed it away.

She had helped Aziraphale clean up her act. It helped both of them. Now Aziraphale would warm up the crowds better and the animosity between them had lessened, and Crowley didn’t have to worry about a different stressed showgirl sharing a dressing room with her.

She glanced at Aziraphale and saw her drawing on her thin moustache. The woman swore and put down the pencil. It was then that Crowley noticed her hands were shaking.

Crowley stood. “Need a bit of help, angel?”

Aziraphale met her eyes in the mirror. “Oh, would you? I just can’t get the moustache symmetrical.”

Crowley gestured with her hand. “Face me.”

Crowley dropped to her knees as Aziraphale turned. Crowley tipped her chin back. “Close your eyes.”

Aziraphale had already finished most of the moustache and just needed the second side complete. Crowley held her chin still and felt her own heart beat in her throat. This close she could see the fan of Aziraphale’s golden eyelashes. Her lips were so plump and just as perfectly peach colored as Crowley had noticed that night at the pub. Crowley could close the short inches between them and kiss her. 

“All done,” Crowley breathed, withdrawing her hand. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and she turned away to inspect Crowley’s work.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Any time,” Crowley said.

Her heart could not stop beating like a snare in her ears, and Aziraphale was already combing back her hair and the moment had passed completely. 

* * *

"Somebody _hooted_ at me," Aziraphale said happily after the show and Crowley took another drag of her cigarette before passing it off to the other woman.

Aziraphale took it, grinning. "That's the best I've ever done and it's all thanks to you."

Crowley waved her off. "Don't thank me. Just keep doing _that,_ and we'll both benefit."

Aziraphale took a long drag of the cigarette and then leaned against the wall next to Crowley. They could hear the bustle of backstage beyond the doors. It was only ten, a few more hours before the hall closed. The patrons were getting drunk now and louder and the acts worse. Crowley never went on after nine. It was in her contract. That was how you got food thrown at you.

Aziraphale blew out the smoke and it curled up into the sky, catching in the faint light of the gas lamps on the street. The back alley of the theater was dim enough to feel private, hidden. A dangerous thing really, with how Crowley was feeling, that warm effervescence bubbling away in her gut at the sight of Aziraphale’s smile.

Aziraphale handed her the cigarette, and Crowley tapped off the gathering ash.

"I’d heard of you in Weymouth, you know."

Crowley grunted in surprise, cigarette tipping down where it was stuck in her mouth. She might need to light another. "All the way in Weymouth?" she asked as she exhaled.

Aziraphale tipped her head back against the wall and looked at the sky. Her hands came behind her back and rested on the wall. 

"Don't get too big of a head. I followed the news on male impersonators," Aziraphale confessed. "I was quite envious. You got paid to wear trousers. I wore them because they were cheaper to replace when they stank too much of oysters but I thought it was quite wonderful to think of a life where it was more than that."

Crowley carefully placed herself beside Aziraphale against the wall. Not too close. She handed over the cigarette and Aziraphale took it. She stared at the burning tip in consideration.

"I just can't help but wonder how someone like you ended up here."

Crowley laughed wryly. "What? The Ninth Circle not up to snuff?" 

"Really, Crowley, they hired me with barely an audition. It’s hardly the Palladium," Aziraphale said, rolling her eyes. She placed the cigarette on her lips and inhaled. Crowley watched her exhale.

Crowley clenched her hand at her hip before reaching out to take the burned out cigarette. She tossed it to the ground and let it smoke.

"I’m allowed more creative freedom here," she explained. "Last place I worked, they dictated my act and it was boring. Constantly the same. Mr. B doesn't give two shits what I do and I bring in the same amount of people. I don't make as much money sure, but I’m happier."

Aziraphale tipped her head to the side to look at Crowley. What a gorgeous woman she was. Intelligent hazel eyes. Soft kissable mouth.

"I'm glad you’re happy, Crowley." Her voice was so gentle, inviting. If Crowley didn’t know better, she would think she _wanted_ to be kissed.

Crowley tore her gaze away. She cleared her throat. “It’s that time, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

She stamped the lazily smoking cigarette under her foot. “Getting late. Best get home.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said and Crowley tried not to think she sounded disappointed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW illustration contained herein so proceed with necessary caution!

It went well for about six weeks. Aziraphale’s show was getting laughs and she and Crowley were spending time together outside of the theater and Crowley _liked_ it. Crowley was so certain that it was going well that when Beelzebub called her into his office, she was ready to joke about how funny it was that she had ever been angry to be sharing her dressing room.

Mr. B wasn’t in a laughing mood. When Crowley entered his office, his fuzzy black eyebrows came down so low they almost eclipsed his beady eyes.

“I need a favor,” Beelzebub said flatly.

Crowley didn’t like doing favors for management. That had been the whole point of the strike. “What sort of favor?”

Mr. B groaned and put his hands on his desk. “Look, margins are down after the strike, and I need more cash coming in. Can you take a second matinee on the weekend?”

“You want me to do Sundays?” Crowley asked incredulously. “I do miserably on Sundays. Nobody wants to see my tits on Sundays. They’re all high on Church.”

“You don’t show your tits, first of all. We aren’t that sort of place,” Mr. B warned. “And second, it would just be for a while. To get butts in the seats. Or else I’m going to have to start letting some of the lower quality performers go.”

Crowley dropped into the seat across from Mr. B. She knew where this was going. “Like who?”

“That other male impersonator for one,” Beelzebub grumbled. “She’s getting better but with you on the bill, it’s not worth having two impersonators even if I do pay her peanuts.”

Crowley pictured the awful tenement building she’d dropped Aziraphale off at. Her meagre dinners. Where would she go if Beelzebub cut her loose? Back to Weymouth? Or worse, to the streets? Crowley’s stomach dropped.

“I’ll take the Sunday matinee,” Crowley said quickly. “And I...I have an idea that might boost sales.”

She was talking out of her arse now. It was barely an idea. A passing fancy she’d thought about once or twice.

Beelzebub leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

“I’d have to run it past Aziraphale first, but hear me out.”

* * *

They were drinking at the club when Crowley brought it up. They did that sometimes now. Went for drinks and dinner. Because they were friends. Crowley always paid. Aziraphale didn’t mention it. That was the arrangement they had. Crowley was fine with it, and she didn’t bother interrogating how Aziraphale felt about it because it was a good excuse to get Aziraphale fed and to spend time with her.

When they were about a bottle of wine deep, Crowley stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I’ve been thinking, maybe we could...team up.”

“Team up,” Aziraphale echoed. Her face went pinched. Confused.

“You know,” Crowley said, waving her hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“I’m asking if you want to do a double act,” Crowley said. She leaned forward onto her elbows. Aziraphale was getting that skittish look. That _oh, no, I could never_ look.

“I thought you hated my act,” Aziraphale protested.

“Hated— Aziraphale! Why would I spend so much time helping you if I hated your act?”

“I don’t know? Charity?”

“I don’t do charity. You know me. Do I seem like I do charity?”

Aziraphale bit her lip and glanced at her. It wasn’t a coquettish look at all and yet it still made Crowley’s stomach flip with the desire to kiss her. A lot of things Aziraphale did made her feel that way. A stupid, useless, doomed attraction. What was Crowley doing lusting after the new girl from Weymouth? Crowley could buy her dinner and replace her pomade and trail after her all she liked but the minute she found out the things Crowley used to do for money, Aziraphale would be running for the hills.

Maybe that was the way Crowley would finally get her dressing room back.

“I was just thinking it might spice things up,” Crowley said, trying to sound like she didn’t care at all. Like this was just an idea. It wouldn’t do for Aziraphale to know her job was on the line. “You could still do your thing. I could still do mine. This would just be...the cherry on top.”

Aziraphale sighed after a moment and asked, “Well, a double act. What would that look like?”

Crowley grinned. Perfect. The fish was hooked. “I’ve got just the thing.”

* * *

Maybe proposing the double act had been a good idea. This particular act was perhaps less of a good idea, but Crowley liked to live on the edge and toss her heart right over it too.

"Kissing?" Aziraphale asked, staring at the notes for the scene.

Crowley lounged on the forgotten set pieces in the staging room and rolled her eyes, purposefully pretending she had no cares in the world. "We won’t actually kiss. It’s all hand kissing and slapstick and the only one that _seems_ like it might end up real is interrupted by the curtain. You don’t need to worry your pretty little head."

"But we're playing...men. kissing. That’s...illegal"

"We're women," Crowley pointed out, lurching to her feet. "People will find it titillating."

"Titillating," Aziraphale mouthed, looking back at the paper. "So no actual kissing?"

There was a tilt to her voice that sounded almost like disappointment, but Crowley could only imagine that was wishful thinking on her part.

"No," she confirmed. "That’s the point. It’ll be the perfect thing. A bit salacious for my crowd, but nothing too far.”

Aziraphale looked at the notes again, hesitating.

Crowley sighed and hopped down off the box she was seated on. “Look, let’s just go through the blocking and you’ll see.”

Aziraphale swallowed visibly and nodded.

They got to work.

* * *

It wasn’t kissing on the mouth, but good Lord, there was touching. So much touching. Crowley grasped her elbow. There was the kiss on the hand. The kiss on the neck. The kiss on the cheek.

That was the joke. Aziraphale’s character, the effeminate man who didn’t know how or where to kiss a lady, being taught by his friend. Then there was the final kiss. The Almost Kiss that would be a Real Kiss if the curtain didn’t fall, but that fully implied the two men they were playing were about to truly...well, _go about their business_.

It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. There was nothing erotic about a clothed kiss to the shoulder, an awkward kiss to an elbow, a blown raspberry on a neck, and yet Aziraphale’s body was entirely aflame. She felt every touch like lightning. It was miserable. It was beautiful. Sometimes she thought Crowley felt it too as they practiced. The way she lingered. Something in the heat of her gaze. But it was hard to believe that someone like Crowley would not simply reach out and take what she wanted. She was so confident and brash. If she wanted Aziraphale, she would have reached for her by now.

She hadn’t and that was indication enough.

So Aziraphale burned in silence as they moved in tandem. A kiss to the cheek. A kiss to the hand. A haughty laugh. A silly bit of choreography for the audience to laugh at. That was what it was and all it would be. She would almost kiss Crowley then they would part and take it from the top.

* * *

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time she had felt nervous for a show, but as she stood backstage, she fiddled with her walking stick and tried to remember to breathe.

“My dear, you’re making _me_ nervous,” Aziraphale said, nudging her with her elbow. The stage workers were cleaning up after Hastur and Ligur and Crowley could still hear the remnants of laughter filtering out among the crowd. The curtain was drawn.

“I haven’t performed with anyone in ages,” Crowley admitted.

“We’ve practiced,” Aziraphale reminded her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “Even if it isn’t a hit, I’ll be right there with you.”

The dim backstage lights cast Aziraphale’s skin in gold and hopelessly, Crowley wondered what would happen if she swayed closer, kissed her. Crowley swallowed. “You’re right. Let’s do this.”

The piano began its jaunty tune, and they swept out onto the stage. The curtain rose and they began their scene.

Aziraphale spoke first.

_What do you think, John? Am I completely hopeless?_

_Well, you can’t go in and woo Lottie without practice_.

The piano chords chimed and Aziraphale stepped to the left as Crowley stepped to the right. Aziraphale kissed her cheek.

_That sort of kissing wont get you anywhere._

The audience laughed.

The tips of Crowley's fingers were going numb in her gloves as Aziraphale pulled back.

Aziraphale was fully in character, a ridiculous dandy, mugging something unbelievable. She took Crowley’s hand and kissed the back.

_Well, some ladies like that but again you’re off the mark_.

Aziraphale turned and put her hands on her hips in frustration. She puckered her lips and huffed.

Crowley tugged her hand and drew her close. Their lips didn’t touch, but Crowley could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s body, the huff of her breath.

Aziraphale kissed her collar, blowing a silly raspberry before scuttling away. Her hand flew to her mouth and the audience broke into uproarious laughter and scattered applause.

_You do need to work on your technique._

_Technique? Dear boy, there’s technique?_

_Of course there’s technique. Think of it like a sport with finesse. You don’t want to jab your opponent._

The music played and they moved left and right as Aziraphale kissed her everywhere but on the mouth and the audience loved it. Crowley was falling, burning. Every eye in the room was on them. Finally, they ended up center stage and Aziraphale looked up at Crowley.

_Something like this?_

Aziraphale grasped Crowley's tie and yanked her close, barely keeping their mouths separated — not touching — and dipping her back like this was about to be the kiss of a lifetime and based on the roaring applause echoing in Crowley’s ears alongside her thundering heart, it could have been.

The curtains closed and they pulled apart, both breathing hard.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley.

"Good show," Aziraphale said.

"Yes," Crowley replied. "Excellent work."

Aziraphale stared at her and when neither of them said anything else, the stage manager shooed them off to ready the stage for the next act.

The walk back to the dressing room was excruciating, and the silence as they stepped inside even more so.

Crowley tugged off her tie and began to unbutton her shirt with shaking hands. The faster she changed, the faster she could go home. She needed to leave because if she didn’t leave she would do something stupid, something irreparable.

"Tell me it's not just me."

She froze and turned. Aziraphale’s hands were clasped so tight around the back of the chair in front of her that her knuckles were white.

"Tell me that before that curtain fell you wanted to kiss me as badly as I wanted to kiss you. Because I think you do but now I'm not sure and I can’t make the first move, Crowley, because what if —"

Crowley was across the room before she could even consider speaking. Actions were a better answer than words. She took Aziraphale’s face in her hands and kissed her. The sheer relief she felt as their lips finally touched made her knees weak. She would soon be a puddle on the floor. But Aziraphale held her up, hands on Crowley's hips and delicious gasps in their shared kiss. How many times had Crowley thought about kissing her in this very room?

Her kiss took on a desperate edge as Aziraphale’s lips parted beneath hers. It was as sweet as Crowley had known it would be.

Aziraphale kissed her back just as desperately, fisting her hands in Crowley's shirt and pushing her back against the dressing table.

"Pushy," Crowley murmured.

"You like it," Aziraphale teased.

"God, yes."

Aziraphale bit playfully at her mouth and Crowley moaned, succumbing entirely to finally being able to touch Aziraphale. Months of wanting her and finally.

Aziraphale slid her hand into the collar of Crowley's shirt, her warm palm leaving goosebumps in its wake. Crowley reluctantly removed her hands from Aziraphale’s hips to help her take off her own waistcoat and shirt leaving her in her corset and combinations.

Aziraphale pushed the straps of her combinations of her shoulders and exposed her chest. "You’re so gorgeous," she breathed.

Then she buried her face in Crowley's breasts, pressing lewd kisses over the skin before drawing a nipple into her mouth and sucking lightly. Crowley sank her hands into Aziraphale’s hair, ignoring the slick pomade for the sake of being able to touch those angelic curls. She moaned. The heat of Aziraphale’s mouth sent pulses of pleasure between her legs, and she was going to soak through her combinations at this point. With a final wet lick to the nipple she had teased to hardness, Aziraphale pulled away, eyes heavy with promise.

"Turn around," she said.

Crowley obeyed.

* * *

Crowley was as beautiful as Aziraphale had dreamed. As she laid her hands on the dressing table, Aziraphale ran her hand down her back, feeling the shape of her spine under her corset and underthings. In the mirror she could see the way her breasts hung, pressed together by her arms as Aziraphale pushed her down onto her elbows.

Crowley’s chest expanded with her breath. "What are you—"

Aziraphale pushed her foot between Crowley’s legs to spread them, and ghosted her hand over the split in her combinations. Crowley shuddered, shoulders coming together as her spine arched.

When Aziraphale had her heart broken nearly a year ago, she had struggled to find any good reason for it. She had wished she had never met Jane, never kissed her, never gone back to her rooms, but now, with Crowley, she was thankful for that experience because Aziraphale knew what she was doing. Without it, she would be fumbling and unsure and she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the look of bliss on Crowley’s face as she parted the split of her underthings and ran her fingers over her.

“Do you like it hard or gentle?” Aziraphale asked, gripping Crowley’s corset and still petting the soft hair of her sex, not dipping inside yet, not even parting her folds. It was that bit of a tease that Crowley liked to go on about in her act and it had her moaning.

“Hard,” Crowley gasped as she tried to press against the dressing table but found no relief with Aziraphale holding her hips up. “Fuck me.”

Aziraphale pressed her middle finger inside and the sound Crowley made went directly between her legs. She didn’t stay gentle for long, slipping a second finger inside and earning herself another gasp.

Crowley’s cheeks were flushed. Each thrust of Aziraphale’s hand made her breasts shake further out of her corset and Crowley’s eyes locked with hers in the mirror. Aziraphale’s chest hurt with the intensity of her feelings. She needed to kiss her.

She withdrew her fingers and Crowley whined but it wasn’t long before she had Crowley on her back, slipping her hand back between her legs, fucking her again as she kissed Crowley with a hunger that wouldn’t abate. Crowley’s back arched and she tore at Aziraphale’s clothes. “Angel, fuck. I’m close. Please.”

Aziraphale pulled back reluctantly, braced her leg against the table, and used one hand to fuck Crowley while she brought the other to rub her off. Crowley’s eyes slammed shut, and she cast her hand out onto the table, knocking over jars and curlers and brushes. Aziraphale didn’t care, and it certainly seemed like Crowley didn’t as she cried out, chest heaving, legs shaking, pale complexion overrun by a gorgeous full body blush.

When Aziraphale pulled away, Crowley struggled to sit up, rising up onto her elbows. “Fuck, angel, where did you learn that?”

Aziraphale blushed, suddenly self-conscious. “Around.”

Crowley slithered off the table. “Come here. Let me return the favor.”

“Crowley,” she protested as the other woman drew her into her arms. They shared another kiss. This one had just as much heat but less urgency. Instead, a steady thrum of affection curled through Aziraphale. She didn’t want to examine it. She had felt it before and what had that earned her? A broken heart.

Before long, Crowley had drawn her out of her clothes and laid her back in the pile of their costumes, pushing open her thighs so she could lay between them.

“You have the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen,” Crowley said before burying her face in it and leaving Aziraphale no ability to respond as she drew more than one orgasm from her with just the use of her wicked, wicked tongue.

When Aziraphale could take no more, body worn out, she dragged Crowley up into the circle of her arms. Crowley settled there, pillowing her head on her chest. Her hair had come undone from its neat pins and the red curls spread everywhere. Gorgeous and impossible.

“Come home with me,” Crowley said, breaking through Aziraphale’s consideration of the way Crowley’s hair looked like fire in the lamplight.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asked.

“I’ve got plenty of space and we could share wine. Do all that again.”

Aziraphale’s chest grew warm. Overwhelmed.

“Yes. I— I think I’d like that.”

Crowley grinned and pulled her down into a soft kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely loved working on this fic and I want to thank the mods for the event and Al for their wonderful artwork. I couldn't have done it without your wonderful idea and your art has blown me away. 
> 
> CW: period typical attitudes towards sex work, biphobia

Aziraphale awoke in a far too soft bed. She rolled over and snuggled deeper under blankets that were far warmer than any she had used in recent memory. Her body was pleasantly sore in places she hadn’t been sore in quite some time.

She reached across the pillow and found it empty. Opening her eyes, she frowned and asked, “Crowley?”

She sat up and took in the details of the room she’d mostly ignored in favor of a great deal of sex the night before. It was huge and full of the luxurious reds Crowley seemed to like so much. Aziraphale had vaguely understood Crowley was wealthy given the fact that she paid for their drinks and had bought Aziraphale a few gifts, but she had not realized Crowley was _rich._ Not until she’d seen her house and how relaxed she seemed to be living in such opulence.

Scooting out of bed, Aziraphale went in search of her shirt, only to realize she wouldn’t find it when Crowley walked in _wearing it_ and very little else carrying a tray.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, snatching the sheet from the bed in an attempt to cover her nudity and failing. Crowley smiled at her in that sharklike way of hers and set aside the tray which appeared to be laden with tea and breakfast.

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley said, approaching her much the way a snake might approach a tasty mouse. “Did you sleep well?”

“I-- yes," she admitted. 

Then Crowley smiled and it was genuine. It was like the sun coming out. Like flowers blooming. Aziraphale’s heart raced as she plopped back onto the bed. Pushing back some of the curls on her forehead, Crowley kissed her head. “I brought you breakfast. Would you like to eat it in bed?”

Aziraphale tugged on the tail of her own shirt. “I’d like my shirt back.”

She didn’t really mean it though and Crowley laughed as she retrieved the tray. “If I give you back your shirt, will you run off?”

“No,” Aziraphale lied.

Crowley set the tray down between them and settled atop the covers. Aziraphale’s stomach grumbled at the beautiful spread. Strawberries and fresh baked bread and delicious looking meat. She never ate as well as she did when Crowley fed her.

Crowley picked up a strawberry and held it out to her. Aziraphale tentatively took a bite and Crowley smiled again. She looked so beautiful when she smiled. 

“I’m glad you stayed the night,” Crowley said once Aziraphale started to eat her breakfast. 

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale swallowed the bread in her mouth and looked away. In the light of day, it was so difficult to be honest. She’d been proud of herself the night before, declaring her feelings, and then they had come here, a mess of giggles and kisses and it had been so easy to go to bed together. 

Crowley crawled over the dining tray and draped herself over Aziraphale’s legs. Her head came to settle on Aziraphale’s stomach, hair cascading over the white sheet like a crimson waterfall. “I liked having you here when I woke up.”

Aziraphale’s heart thumped and she tentatively brushed her hand through Crowley’s hair. Crowley pressed into it gently, like a cat looking for affection. “I liked being here.”

Pressing a kiss to her belly, Crowley began to pull down the sheet. “I like being _here_ ,” she said, pushing her legs apart.

It was easy enough to forget her worries as Crowley kissed her. They were worries for another time.

* * *

For years, Crowley’s life had been measured by call time after call time. She moved about the world based on the theater’s schedule, performing until she didn’t have to perform anymore, and going home to a glass of good wine. 

In the weeks after Aziraphale’s confession, her sense of time shifted entirely. It was which nights she could manage to get Aziraphale away from her awful tenement, which days she planned gifts for her, which evenings they could find themselves in the corner of their favorite bar. The metronome of Crowley’s life had begun to tick to the tune of Aziraphale Fell and it should have terrified her. Instead, there was only the steady thrum of joy every time Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley was fucking done for.

"I bought you something," Crowley said after another bottle of wine was delivered to their table. Aziraphale was gorgeously flushed and it was running on 1 AM so Crowley was certainly about to try to convince her to come home with her, but first…

Aziraphale’s eyebrows contorted in surprise. "Crowley, you shouldn't have."

Drawing the watch from her pocket, Crowley placed it on the table. The attached chain drizzled into a pile beside it. 

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, reaching out to touch it.

"I thought it would look good with your costume," Crowley said. "But also that you'd like it for the day to day."

She withdrew the angel wing fob she’d commissioned and held it out to Aziraphale who stared at it in disbelief. 

"For my angel," Crowley teased, enjoying the way Aziraphale turned red to the roots of her hair as she snatched the fob from Crowley's palm.

“I don’t know why you insist on that silly nickname,” Aziraphale said as she stared at the little piece of metal. 

“Don’t you?” Crowley said, toying with the curls at the nape of her neck.

She pressed a kiss behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Come home with me, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale shivered and leaned closer before turning her head. They were so close that their lips almost brushed. As much as this bar allowed, two women kissing _might_ get them booted onto the street. Crowley still wanted to do it.

“You don’t have to buy me gifts to get me to come home with you,” Aziraphale said as she dropped her hand to Crowley’s knee. Her palm was hot through the fabric of Crowley’s trousers. It was exciting. It was revelatory. It was _everything._

“Maybe I like buying you things,” Crowley replied, tangling their hands together. Her heart beat so hard against her ribs that it hurt. Was this love? She’d never felt anything like it. 

It was too soon to say it. There were things Aziraphale needed to know about her before Crowley asked for anything else from her. It wasn’t fair to expect Aziraphale, an inexperienced (well, apparently not that inexperienced if their activities in bed were anything to go by) girl from seaside, to shack up with an ex-prostitute without knowing what she was getting into.

Crowley just had to figure out a way to tell her that didn’t feel like sending the entire relationship to hell.

* * *

Performing with Crowley was a delight. It gave Aziraphale confidence in her own act. The way people cheered and guffawed throughout their back and forth taught her how to get laughs during her performance. She was learning. She was getting better. 

It was marvelous.

“I was thinking I might start playing the piano during my piece,” Aziraphale said idly as she did her makeup one day before her show. 

Crowley turned away from her mirror, eyebrows drawn together. “You play?”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m not sure how I could incorporate it but I’m sure other entertainers do it.”

Crowley stood, her chair creaking against the floor as she pushed it back, and came up behind her. She slipped her arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and rested her chin on her head, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “Maybe we could do another double act. You could play for me.”

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered at the affection in Crowley’s eyes. Gone was the angry, sharp woman who snapped at her at every turn. This was Crowley without her defenses. This was the woman she loved. 

“I think I’d like that.”

* * *

Aziraphale pulled Crowley against her chest and sighed happily. After that first awkward night (which she was now comfortable admitting had only been awkward for her), she found she _liked_ being at Crowley’s townhouse. It wasn’t just the comfort of being somewhere clean with unblocked fireplaces, but it was being with Crowley that brought her so much happiness.

“You’re very good at that,” Aziraphale observed as she played with the ends of Crowley’s hair. “Not that I have much to measure against but…”

Crowley pulled away then, a sour expression on her face. Not at all Aziraphale’s intent when she made her comment. 

“You’re from Weymouth,” Crowley said, a very strange thing to say indeed after what they had just been up to.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. Sitting up too, she pulled up the blankets and met Crowley’s eyes. 

“You used to sell oysters,” Crowley added.

Aziraphale nodded, not sure what that had to do with anything.

“I’m from London,” Crowley said, voice flat. “I used to live in a workhouse before I worked as a prostitute. Eight years ago I started performing in music halls.”

Aziraphale sat back against the headboard. “Oh. I didn’t--I didn’t know.”

Crowley bared her teeth, an expression Aziraphale hadn’t seen on her face in a long time. “Is that a problem?”

Aziraphale took her hand. “Of course not. Thank you for telling me.”

Crowley swallowed hard enough that Aziraphale could see her throat working. Her eyes were shining but Aziraphale didn’t mention it. “Thought you should know. Was all. Before we...got further involved.”

“Come back here,” Aziraphale said, tugging on Crowley’s arms. “I did not get my fill of holding you.”

Crowley practically collapsed against her. Smiling, Aziraphale ran her hand down Crowley’s back and told silly stories about regular customers in Weymouth. Maybe one day Aziraphale would tell her about Jane and the corner of her heart that still ached. She wasn’t quite ready yet, but she thought she might be soon. Every day with Crowley felt like healing. What a wonderful thing.

* * *

Two weeks later Aziraphale arrived early at the theater and found red roses in the dressing room. She smiled at the sight. Crowley was so predictable. It had been one month to the day that they had first kissed.

She plucked the card from the the flowers and saw the name scrawled on the back

_To Toni_

She dropped it as if it was on fire. These weren’t a gift from Crowley. They were _for_ Crowley. Who was sending Crowley gifts? 

"What on earth is this?" Crowley asked when she walked into her dressing room and spied the dozen or so roses on her dressing table.

"Aziraphale," she said warningly as she approached them. "I told you not to waste your money on me--"

"They’re not from me," Aziraphale snapped, fisting her hand around her comb. It was fine. Actresses got flowers from admirers all the time it didn't mean--

Crowley pulled out the card and read it. She snorted and tossed it down on the table before shrugging off her coat. 

"Who are they from?" Aziraphale asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

Crowley continued to take the pins from her air as she answered. "Leo."

Aziraphale was _not_ going to break something. "Who's Leo?" she asked lightly as she unscrewed the pomade.

Crowley shrugged. "He wanted to marry me. Ages ago now. But he wanted me to give up performing so I said no."

Crowley kept talking but Aziraphale couldn't hear it over the ringing in her ears. It all made sense. Crowley had said she used to be a prostitute and Aziraphale had assumed that meant she slept with men even if she didnt like them because it was work. But it sounded like Crowley was like Jane. Crowley liked women but she also liked men and if Crowley liked men then she would end up with some Leo or Thomas or Joseph. Somebody who could _marry_ her. 

Aziraphale stood abruptly, drawing Crowley's attention. 

"Are you alright, angel?"

"Yes," she said, choking down her tears. "Just going to the toilets. I'll be back in a jiffy."

She couldn't stay with Crowley. She wouldn't have her heart broken again.

* * *

The stupid roses were stinking up the dressing room. Aziraphale had a sensitive nose and that’s probably what ran her off. A few roses were nice. Two dozen was overkill.

Maybe Crowley should buy Aziraphale flowers but just one or two. She’d always thought of Aziraphale as practical so Crowley had bought her useful things, but flowers were romantic. 

Crowley added it to her mental list of potential gifts. Today was technically their one month anniversary and Crowley had a very nice bottle of wine back at her townhouse as well as an order for oysters to be delivered later. They would be fresh and hopefully up to Aziraphale’s standards. Even if they weren’t, she thought they might have a nice laugh about it.

When Aziraphale returned, she acted strange. Her behavior stilted as she finished doing her hair and makeup. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began when Aziraphale fumbled her comb for the third time.

Aziraphale locked eyes with her in the mirror and her lips thinned. “I’m fine, Crowley. Leave it.”

She didn’t think she’d ever heard Aziraphale talk like that so she dropped it, turning the exchange over in her head. Was Aziraphale jealous? Over some stupid flowers from a man Crowley had forgotten about? There was nothing to be jealous over. Maybe Crowley just needed to tell her that.

As they walked to the stage, silence heavy between them, Crowley said, “I don’t care about the flowers, you know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said quietly, pushing into the darkness of the wings, but Crowley had a feeling she didn’t know. She followed close behind her.

“I’m with you,” Crowley whispered, trying to get Aziraphale’s attention as she adjusted her waistcoat. “We’re…” She searched for the right word. “Partners. Together.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be.”

Crowley’s thoughts came to a stop. Her blood seemed to chill in her veins and a roaring came to her ears so loud that she couldn’t even hear the laughter of the audience. 

“What?” she choked out. Too loud. Loud enough the stage manager shushed her.

"Crowley, we can't do this anymore," Aziraphale hissed as the piano started to play. Their number was almost up.

"What's that supposed to mean? Why can't we?"

"I simply think it's not a good idea to...to fraternize with costars."

"Fraternize?" Crowley hissed but that was their cue and the show manager was shooing them onstage so they went.

It was awful.

They said their lines but the energy was off. Crowley was angry. She thought she had a right to be. After everything, Aziraphale dropping her with no explanation made her blood boil.

The curtain dropped and Aziraphale released her from the back bend, her eyes darting away. Fine. It was fine.

Crowley stomped off to the dressing room without even looking back only to find Beelzebub waiting by the door.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded.

Crowley shrugged and tried to push past.

"No," Mr. B said. "You wanted to save your girl’s job so you need to do better than that. Or I’ll cut both of you loose. Get it together."

"Fine," Crowley bit out. “I’ll figure something out.”

Beelzebub disappeared into the swirl of backstage activity, leaving Crowley to push inside the dressing room. She would grab her things and go home. She could return her costume tomorrow. It would be fine. It was always fine. She was always fine because worse things had happened in her life than this and she had survived them.

"I thought you said it was just a lark," Aziraphale said in the doorway. “The double act.”

Crowley swallowed around the lump in her throat. "It was," she drawled. She was an actress. She could do this.

"Beelzebub was going to fire me."

"Not on my watch," Crowley said fiercely.

Aziraphale stared at her. God, her eyes, stormy and changeable and all-consuming. Her gaze darted away and she crossed the room, pausing to lean her weight against the dressing table.

"I was in love with a girl in Weymouth."

"Oh."

So that's what it was. Aziraphale couldn't feel the same because she still—

"No," Aziraphale said, reading her expression. "I’m past it but she— she said she loved me too and then she ran off with a fisherman. They’re married now."

Crowley's heart twisted like a rag, filthy and wretched.

Aziraphale turned back and fixed those eyes on her. "I am never going to run off with a fisherman because there is no man for me. I'm not made that way. I know it. It's not in my nature. But you...maybe there's a fisherman out there for you and I can't…"

She pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. 

Crowley couldn't bear it and crossed the room to draw her into her arms. "Like I'd leave you for a bloody fisherman."

Aziraphale laughed wetly. "Well, it could be a coachman."

"He'd smell like horses."

"Or some toff. Someone like this Leo..."

"Now you're just making excuses."

Aziraphale’s arms came up around her back. 

"I love you too much to leave you," Crowley confessed.

Aziraphale’s arms tightened before releasing her entirely.

"So how about it?" Crowley asked. "Do you want to stay? Partners?"

"Partners," Aziraphale confirmed. "In whatever way you'll have me."

Aziraphale kissed her and Crowley certainly wasn't going to say no to that.

**Five months later**

Aziraphale wasn’t in their dressing room so Crowley went snooping around backstage until she found her in the practice room. She was playing the piano and singing Angels without Wings of all things even though Crowley had told her multiple times the song was far too old and not funny at all.

Sliding up behind her, Crowley pressed a kiss to her cheek. She stopped playing and gave her a cross look. 

“Crowley, I’m busy,” she said.

“I brought you this,” Crowley said as she tossed the rose onto the keys. “It’s our six month anniversary you know.”

“It’s technically not an anniversary if there’s no years involved,” Aziraphale pointed out.

Crowley hopped up on the bench and sat on the back of the piano, leaning forward on her knees. “You ruin my romantic gestures by being a pedant. Every single time.”

Aziraphale set the rose down beside her. “You love it.”

“I love you so I put up with it,” Crowley corrected.

“Who is being pedantic now?” Aziraphale asked, raising her eyebrows. She knocked Crowley’s feet out of the way so she could continue playing the piano. They were trying out a new double act that involved Aziraphale playing but it certainly wasn’t _Angels without Wings._

Crowley watched her hands move over the keys, strong and sure and beautiful. With her eyes downcast, her eyelashes shaded her cheeks and everything about the moment, mundane as it was, overwhelmed Crowley to the breaking point.

“Move in with me,” Crowley said, all in a rush.

Aziraphale’s hands froze on the keys. “Excuse me?”

It wasn’t exactly how Crowley had planned to ask but she _had_ planned to ask so it would have to do. “I hate that tenement you live in. You stay at my place five nights out of the week. Move in.”

Aziraphale’s hand went to her heart and a smile broke out over her face. “Alright,” she said. “I will.”

It wasn’t a perfect moment, but it was damn close. 

* * *


End file.
